“If you hate being an RA so much, why did you sign up again?” Oscar asks, watching as you staple glittery letters to your MEET YOUR RA bulletin board.

“Reduced housing. Single dorm room. Looks good on a resume,” you say nonchalantly.

Oscar arches a brow. You roll your eyes.

“I don’t hate being an RA. It’s just—move-in day. Almost as bad as syllabus week.” You see a freshman carrying a pile of boxes up the stairs and you can only hope he isn’t as scrawny as he looks. “People haven’t stopped going to class yet or decided to drop out or just… given up. It’s crowded everywhere and everyone moves so slowly. Not to mention all the freshmen come running to me like I’m their mother and not like I have a senior project to work on.”

Oscar has that half-smile that he does whenever he’s amused. You picked up on it last year—back when the two of you first signed up to be RAs for the same floor. “How’s that going, by the way?” he asks, arms folded over his chest.

“Terribly,” you sigh. “An on-site treatment system for wastewater is so much more complex than Professor Vettel made it sound last semester.” You raise your head to look at Oscar, stapling one glittery exclamation point with more force than necessary. “Some days I genuinely think he hates me.”

Oscar huffs a small laugh. “He doesn’t hate you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell that to the two separate proposals I have to write on septic systems with leaching fields and subsurface constructed wetlands.” You stare at your board blankly. The T in MEET YOUR RA is crooked. “He wants me dead.”

“At least your bulletin board is looking good,” he offers with a half-shrug.

“I made a Pinterest board for it,” you say, muttering a curse when your stapler locks. “Are you done with yours?”

“Yep.”

“Can I guess what it looks like?” Oscar shrugs, and you smile amusedly. “Construction paper. Sharpie. Maybe one motivational poster from an office supply store.” A laugh scratches against the back of your throat. “I bet you got one with a koala.”

“No,” he responds, a beat too quickly. Oscar doesn’t look fazed—though the red tint of his ears gives him away immediately. He averts his eyes. “It was an eagle poster,” he mutters.

You snort. Last year, he asked you to write everything out in cursive for him. You suppose this could be viewed as a step in the right direction—the fact that he at least had some foresight to decorate his board on his own. Then—you remember. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be three RAs for our floor this year?” you ask him, finally putting down your stapler. “Where’s number three?”

“He hasn’t decorated yet,” Oscar says, even though that’s not what you asked him. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, turning the screen towards you to show you his messages with a number he’s unceremoniously saved as Resident Assistant #3. “And he texted me, actually. Said there was an issue with his old building, and was called in to help.”

You roll your eyes. “A shitty excuse. And I better not be saved in your phone as Resident Assistant number two.”

Oscar ignores your last comment and pockets his phone. “I told him he could go.” He shrugs. “I mean, it was just us last year. I think we’ll be fine for the day.”

“Yeah, I guess.” You clean your hands against your jeans, accidentally leaving purple glitter on your clothes. “You should at least put up a few fun facts about you on your board.”

He raises a brow, not seeming particularly enthusiastic. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, like—you’re Australian.”

Oscar scrunches his nose. “That’s not a fun fact.”

“It can be.”

He just blinks at you, crease between his brows to show he is not following your train of thought. You don’t have one, so you don’t really care.

You roll your eyes and stand up. Most of your residents should’ve settled in by now. “Is it time for dorm checks?”

“Yep.”

“You really do have a way with words, Oscar.”

Dorm checks go as they should—uneventfully. You give your residents a rundown of the rules—no animals, no smoking, no drinking, no doing anything that could potentially constitute a fire hazard. You’re only missing the last couple of rooms when you decide to ask,

“Hey, are you going to Lando’s tonight?”

Oscar shrugs again, always too nonchalant for you to get a proper read on him. “Lando’s making me. So.”

You grin. “Oooh, he’s making you, is he?”

Oscar rolls his eyes, but before he can say anything, one of the doors you’ve yet to knock on opens and out pops a head of shaggy brown hair. Josep María—Pepe, if you’re not mistaken. He spots you two and gives you a lopsided smile. “Hey, do either of you guys have a lighter?”

Both of you blink at him. The two of you wear matching sticker name tags that read HI! I’M YOUR RA in black marker. 

“Smoking is not allowed in the building,” Oscar deadpans.

Pepe blinks once. Twice. You can hear shuffling from inside his dorm. “So… is that a no?”

Oscar narrows his eyes. “Are you smoking in there?” 

“…No?”

You shrug, reaching for the sleeve of Oscar’s shirt to pull him onto the next dorm room. “Fine by me.” 

He furrows his brows. “What? But he was definitely—” 

“Yeah, but if he admits to it, we have to write a report,” you say simply. “And I don’t know about you, but I’m not doing that day one—not when we’re already behind schedule.”

You glance back at Pepe, who’s still looking around the hall to see if he can spot anyone with a light. Freshmen.

“Hey!” He stiffens, turning towards the sound of your voice. “If you burn anything, I will make it my personal mission to make your life a living hell for the rest of the term.” You smile brightly. “Happy move-in day!”

Here’s an honest truth: neither you nor Oscar are big on frat parties. But it’s only the start of the term, and you’re feeling like you want to step out of your comfort zone. That—and Lando’s frat always orders pizza for these things. So, free food.

By the time the two of you step into the party, it’s already in full swing. Somehow, under the violet-turned-red lights and the mass of bodies dancing, Lando manages to spot you the second you two cross the threshold of the house. You distantly hear your name and Oscar’s being called out, before a pair of arms wraps around you and lifts you up into a spin.

“It’s barely ten. How are you drunk already?” you ask Lando as he finally puts you down, green eyes only slightly disoriented and curls tousled. 

“We started pregaming at, like, six or seven,” Lando says, turning to Oscar with a pout. “You said you’d be here at seven.”

Oscar shrugs. “Got held back.”

“You always say that,” Lando says, eyes narrowed. Then, as if remembering something, his gaze flicks to you. “Hey—I should warn you.” You raise a brow. “Your dick of an ex is here.”

Annoyance trickles into your skin. “Of course he is,” you say, rolling your eyes. “He spent the entire summer posting stories of him clubbing and partying. So, no surprise there.”

Oscar furrows his brow. “I thought you said you’d blocked him.”

Fuck. “Did I?” Oscar doesn’t seem to buy it, so you figure that if you’ve already been found out, then you might as well… “Where is he?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Last I saw, he was busy sucking some poor freshman’s face,” Lando responds, not missing a beat. You wonder whether his filter is gone because he’s not sober, or whether he’s just telling you this because he hates your ex and feels like being messy. “Which is, like, sooo wrong—‘cause she was a ten, and he’s barely a five on a good day.” Lando squints at something from across the room, and you can feel Oscar’s mildly uneasy stare boring into your cheek. You make the executive decision of ignoring it. “Oi—nearly forgot, but I have some friends I want you guys to meet.”

Lando slings his arm over your shoulder, bringing both you and Oscar closer to each side of him as he leads you towards the opposite end of the room. A few guys whose faces seem somewhat familiar nod at Lando.

You think he might be talking to you as Lando clumsily maneuvers the two of you across the room. Either way, his voice gets drowned out somewhere between the music and your quiet deliberation. You decide it then—under the fluorescent lights and the smell of cheap beer, you make your decision. You’re gonna find someone who’s hot. Someone who’s available. For once, you’re gonna have fun before the academic stress of the year catches up to you.

It takes you too long to ground yourself back in reality and realize Lando is halfway through introducing you to a group of people you decidedly do not know.

“—emeber George? He’s the one that accidentally sent that email I told you about to Professor Hamilton.”

The blue-eyed man winces, turning to Lando with an odd expression. “You don’t have to introduce me like that every time, mate.”

“But it’s funny.”

George narrows his eyes. “You’ve done worse things drunk. I know that for a fact.”

“Maybe,” Lando shrugs nonchalantly. “Though nothing my thesis supervisor knows of. Can you say the same, Georgie?”

George mutters something under his breath, hiding his face behind his red solo cup. “I’m never telling you anything again.”

“You will,” Lando chirps. “I have long arms, y’know. Means people see me as trustworthy. ‘Cause I look like I give good hugs.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I read an article.”

“You mean you saw it on a Tiktok.”

“Don’t patronize me, Russell.”

“Alright, enough out of you two,” a man says, and you only then notice his presence in the circle. You don’t know how you missed him, really—not when he’s tall, has wispy brown hair and a smile already tugging at his lips. His eyes flicker to you for just a second, a breath—and maybe you’re delusional, but you’re certain his gaze sweeps across your frame, checking you out. 

“He started it,” George interrupts, scowling.

“He started it,” Lando mocks. “You should get, like, at least a tiny bit plastered, mate. I mean, live a little. Make sure Alex holds onto your phone, though. Wouldn’t want you emailing any other professors.”

“I can’t stand you.”

Lando holds his hands to his chest. “Oh god. I’m devastated. You’ve devastated me.”

The tall guy with the pretty smile rolls his eyes, nudging Lando. He tilts his head to the side. “So, are you not gonna introduce your other friends?”

Lando perks up at that. “Right—always so keen, aren’t you, Alex?”

Alex, you note mentally. His face doesn’t ring a bell—not even now with a name attached to it. Even so, he doesn’t look like a frat boy, which you suppose could be considered a point in his favor.

“—and George you already know Oscar,” Lando finishes, wrapping up introductions. You bring your can of beer to your lips as Lando clasps his hands together. “So! Now that everyone knows each other, I will be taking Oscar with me to the DJ booth. Don’t break anything while I’m gone—and if you do, just… blame it on somebody else.” With that, he promptly reaches for Oscar’s wrist and drags him along.

George, Alex and you all stare at Lando’s retreating frame. You furrow your brows. “Sorry. DJ booth?”

“It’s cardboard boxes with a tablecloth over them,” Alex deadpans, prompting an amused smile from you. 

You glance at George, then back at Alex. You tilt your head, vaguely gesturing between the two of them. “So. Did Lando just choose to befriend the two tallest guys he could find in his frat or…?”

Alex snorts, and George instantly looks borderline insulted. “We’re not frat boys,” George clarifies immediately. “Just to be clear.”

Alex gnaws at the inside of his cheek, hiding a smile. “Yeah—no, us and Lando go way back. We knew each other before uni.”

You hum appreciatively. “Not in the same major, then?”

Alex shakes his head, still smiling. “Can you guess?”

You raise a brow. “George is an English major,” you say, and Alex snorts.

“She just called you pretentious, by the way,” Alex says with a nudge.

George furrows his brows. “Wha—but I am an English major.”

Alex throws you a look that reads, can you believe this guy? It makes a smile tug at your lips. He grins. “So, what about me?” You make a face of faux concentration. “If you say Business or Econ, I’m taking it as a personal slight against me.”

You laugh, and Alex seems to perk up at that, eyes brightening. “I wanna say… Engineering?”

Alex shakes his head in a so-so motion. “Computer Science.”

“Oh, you’re one of those.”

George is the one chuckling now, nudging Alex back. “She just called you a nerd—just so you know.”

Alex shrugs, bringing his red plastic cup to his lips. “I’ll take it.”

George glances at something behind you. “Hey—it looks like they’re setting up a beer pong table,” he says.

“I am a notoriously bad shot,” you say, laying down your empty can on some cluttered table. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah! I knew I liked you,” George says, throwing a smug look at Alex. “Can’t ditch me now, Albon”

Alex rolls his eyes, but starts walking to the peer pong table anyway. “I’m giving all my drinks to George.”

“Fair,” you say with a shrug.

“Wha—no?” George stammers. “Not fair. Not fair at all—I’m supposed to be meeting with Professor Hamilton tomorrow at eight-twenty.”

“Then it’s a good thing he already knows what you sound like when you’re drunk.”

The three of you settle around one half of the table, laughs being shared much to George’s dismay. The plastic cups are already positioned like a triangle as people start to gather around the opposite end of the table.

Then you spot him. Sidling up with the opposite team, your ex-boyfriend has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair messy like someone has been running their hands over it. Even under the shifting fluorescent lights, you’re almost certain you catch a glimpse of lipstick near his neck.

Your stomach drops. He sees you a beat later, recognition dripping with a smugness that grates at you. Lando’s right—he is a prick.

Alex gently nudges your side. “Hey,” he says, a little cautiously. His brows are furrowed, and a reckless part of you considers running your thumb over his skin to smooth it over. Maybe you’re drunker than you thought. “You good?”

Your jaw twitches, making an active effort to avoid looking back in your ex’s direction. “Great,” you say, a little too dry.

You made a promise to yourself. You were gonna find someone hot. Someone who’s actually your type and can serve as a big, neon-lit Fuck You to your ex. 

You glance at Alex just as he jumps up to celebrate scoring against the opposite team. He’s cute. Has a nice smile, a pretty face—he even has a matching humor to go alongside it. More so—he’s been glancing in your direction like you’re not picking up on it.

You miss your shot once again, throwing your head back with thinly veiled annoyance. Alex just watches you, amusement dancing in those dark brown eyes. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were a bad shot, huh?” he teases.

“Hey,” you say, no sharpness to your tone. “I warned you.”

He shakes his head, smiling. It’s the other team’s turn—and despite currently winning by a clear margin, they seem to be noticeably slower at turn-taking than your team. 

You turn to face Alex completely now, tilting your head. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you spot your ex glancing in your direction. “So, what’s your deal?” you ask, and Alex arches a brow questioningly. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Alex actually laughs before he has the chance to look surprised at your newfound boldness. “Straight to the point, huh?”

“Please,” you respond with a good-natured roll of your eyes. You blink, and your hand is nudging against his on the pingpong table. Distantly, you think the other team messes up their shot. “You’re acting like you haven’t been checking me out since Lando introduced us.” You shrug, coy. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Alex’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip. He looks confident, but you don’t miss his sharp inhale. “I wasn’t going for subtle,” he says.

You hum. “Hey,” you say, and this time, you fully reach for his hand, interlacing your fingers with his. You tilt your head towards the kitchen area. “Wanna go with me to refill my drink?”

Alex grins. “Sure.”

The two of you are already walking away when George calls out, “You’re ditching the team now?”

Alex doesn’t even blink. “You’ll manage, George.”

“This isn’t very sportsmanlike!”

You reach the kitchen faster than you should’ve, with Alex guiding you across the crowds of people dancing and grinding on each other. The carpeted floor already feels wet with what you can only hope is spilled beer.

As soon as you reach the kitchen, the music seems to dull into the background. He turns to face you as you casually press your back against the counter. His eyes are alight with mirth when he asks, “So, what do you wanna drink? I think I saw a few Redbulls, Whiteclaws, maybe some vodka—”

You raise a brow. There’s a playfulness to his tone that tells you he’s playing dumb, acting like he doesn’t know this was an excuse—like you haven’t caught him staring at your lips for most of the night. Like he hasn’t pretended not to notice when you did the same. “You think you’re cute,” you say.

“I think you’re hot.”

You tilt your head, ignoring the way his comment makes something warm curl around your gut. Even when he’s leaning closer to you, he seems hesitant—as if making sure whether there’s an excuse to keep some distance between the two of you. 

Tonight, however, you’re feeling particularly impatient.

“Are you gonna do anything about it?”

Alex thinks he’s the one that leans in first. You’re sure it’s you. Either way, the result is the same—his lips on your lips, tongue swiping against yours. He licks into your mouth, eager. 

Still, the angle feels odd. And even with his hand finding its way on your hip, you can tell he’s craning his neck at a weird angle. 

Alex mutters something against your lips, something you don’t manage to catch, before both his hands are wrapping around your thighs and he’s pulling you up onto the counter. You make a surprised sound that he swallows with a pleased hum.

“Much better,” he says, now on eye-level with you. And there’s that smile again—self-satisfied, maybe a little cocky, but softer at the edges.

You press your lips against his with a smile. “You’re cute,” you murmur into him, and you feel the exact moment those words register in his brain. How, in a blink, he seems to melt into you.

Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers absentmindedly toying with his hair. He’s gentle, which you respond to by grazing his bottom lip with your teeth. He lets out a sound into your mouth that fuels you. His hands still rest against the side of your thighs as you bracket him between them. 

Alex pulls away for a second—just a second—but it’s enough for you to catch a glimpse of his blown-wide pupils. You blink, and his kisses are trailing down to the slope between your shoulder and neck. He gently brushes away your hair, finally settling over your pulse point. 

You inhale sharply as he nips at your neck. He laughs quietly against your skin, and you can feel his smug smile as he kisses the spot. 

“I have a meeting tomorrow morning with my building,” you say, voice coming out like a bit of a whine as your hand tugs at Alex’s hair to make him face you. His lips look kiss-swollen and bruised. “If you leave a hickey, I’m giving you a matching one, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Alex responds breathlessly, and he leans closer to chase your mouth again.

“Someone needs to turn off the sun.”

You meet Oscar in the hallway, squinty-eyed with pillow marks still indented into his skin. He looks like he got run over by a truck. You imagine you’re not that better off.

“I feel like my ears are still ringing,” you mutter, falling into easy stride with him. You wince, ear drums blasted from last night. You mentally decide that if you lose your hearing by your thirties, Lando’s gonna be footing the bill.

The meeting room 

“Yeah,” Oscar says, voice rough with sleep—or lack thereof. “Feels like I barely saw you last night, though.”

You shrug as the two of you get on the elevator. Oscar pushes the button for the residence hall’s lounge. “Yeah. I got… busy,” you say vaguely.

“Busy?” Oscar asks, raising a brow. He turns to face you, and his eyes widen as he catches a glimpse of something in the elevator mirror. “Fuck me, was he trying to eat you?”

You furrow your brows and turn to him, confused. “What?”

Oscar gestures at the mirror. “Your neck. You have this, like—” You scan your reflection, catching sight of the blaring purple mark sitting on the slope of your neck just as Oscar lands on, “You have a hickey.”

“Fucking…” you trail off, letting down your hair in an attempt to cover it. It’s not like you can run back to your dorm and get your concealer. You can’t be an RA and be late to your first floor meeting with your residents. “Is it too obvious?”

Oscar blinks. “I mean. It’s not subtle.”

“Fuck.” What are the chances that the third RA carries concealer or a foundation that’s similar to yours? You fix your hair again, untucking it from behind your ear and pulling the collar of your shirt further up. It’s a poor attempt at hiding it.

“At least tell me it wasn’t him,” Oscar says.

“It wasn’t,” you shoot back.

“Someone I know, then?” 

You sigh as the elevator doors slide open with a ding. “Lando’s friend. Alex. You know—one of the two tall guys you left me with when you ditched me for Lando?” Oscar’s brows shoot up. “What?”

“I don’t know. Guess I didn’t think Lando’s friends were… your type.” He considers it for a moment. “Though based on your previous relationships, I could see how that tracks.”

“Fuck off,” you say lightly, shoving him to the side. “He wasn’t like, a frat boy or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” Oscar says, unconvinced.

“I mean it!” you insist. “Besides, it wasn’t like it was serious. Like, yeah, he was cute. But I’m probably never gonna see him again, anyway.”

The two of you stride into the lounge side-by-side. Chairs have already been arranged into a neat circle, a plastic plate with oreos and off-brand cookies placed at a table by the corner. 

The guy arranging the last chair into place turns around. Brown eyes meet your gaze. Your blood runs cold.

He looks more put-together than both you or Oscar. His hair is still tousled, but there’s a certain charm to it. What draws your eye, however, is the matching purple mark resting on his neck.

“Um,” Alex stammers, blinking at you like he’s expecting you to vanish the next time he closes his eyes. “Are you one of my residents?”

Oscar pauses. Tilts his head. Realizes. “Isn’t that the guy you—”

“You’re the other RA,” you say dumbly. Alex’s eyes drop to the sticker name tags on both you and Oscar’s chests. The ones that read HI! I’M YOUR RA.

He swallows. “Shit.”

“Shit.”